


Secret Sorrows

by canonjohnlock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Surprise Ending, implied wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canonjohnlock/pseuds/canonjohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His brother is dead and he cannot cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Sorrows

**Author's Note:**

> also available on wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/60497591-secret-sorrows

_“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”_

_-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

 

The doctors said it was quick. That he hadn’t suffered. They always said that. How did they know? How did they know there was no suffering? That he hadn’t laid there, wishing for death until it finally overtook him? They couldn’t. So he didn’t believe them.

 

It was autumn. The leaves on the trees in Wisconsin were turning rich shades of red and orange and yellow. They fell gracefully to the ground, floating wherever the wind took them. He felt like a leaf. The waves of sorrow guiding him wherever they wished to take him. Often it was a crappy bar, filled with dirty whores and greasy conmen. He didn’t mind. The drama of the whores and tall tales of the conmen distracted him from the numbing pain for a little bit. Sometimes the waves took him to crappier motels with cockroaches climbing the walls and bed bugs biting him as he slept, when he slept, that is.

 

It had happened during a hunt. A simple one. A creature they had killed many times before. The full moon was high in the sky as the brothers crept through the darkened woods. Guns and flashlights held securely in hands, the men stalked the creature. Silver knives bounced gently against their thighs. An owl sounded. It was quiet. He liked the silence. The adrenaline pumping through his veins slowed; his body fell into the rhythmic silence of the woods. The sleepless nights slowly enveloped him. He let his guard down for one second. One second. But it was enough.

 

The cell phones were still in the glove compartment. He couldn’t bear to throw them out. They sat in a plastic bag next to his father’s old cell phones. He didn’t open the glove compartment. Sometimes the phones would ring. He would stare at the space, wishing the tinny noise would just stop. Don’t they know? Can’t they feel the absence? Can they feel it like he can? Of course not. Of course they couldn’t. But he hated them anyway. They should be able to feel it. Everyone who has ever lived or ever will live should the hole in space left by his brother. They should feel the pain he’s feeling.

 

He drank himself into a stupor. He laid in the hard, bug-infested motel bed, nursing the liquor bottle. The TV played static. The empty twin bed beside him taunted him. Why did he keep getting double rooms? The glass bottle hit the wall with a startling crash. Glass skittered across the floor.

They were always together. Often alone. They knew everything there was to know about each other. They stitched each other’s wounds and fought over the radio. They teased each other about girls and awkward high school memories. So it was no wonder that they slowly, very slowly, discovered the way that they loved each other.

 

He was 28 and his brother was 24. They were holed up in a motel with a shot heater in the middle of a midwest blizzard. It’s not like they hadn’t been in worse situations. They had been shot and clawed and thrown and stabbed and possessed. A little cold wouldn’t hurt them. But a little cold over a long period of time gets very cold and soon the thin, scratchy bed sheets weren’t enough to keep them warm. The boys had grown up in motels. It wasn’t awkward for them to share a bed, even at their age. They felt young again. Curled up in a twin-sized bed, they talked, too cold still to sleep. As they talked, they grew drunk on soft spoken words and roaring laughs. He hadn’t meant to. But it happened. He was warm and he was cold. He was willing and innocent with wide, wide eyes. He was hesitant and knowing with wide, wide pupils. His lips were soft and welcoming and comforting and he needed to be comforted. He hadn’t meant to, but he was glad he did.

 

The leaves on the trees had disappeared long ago. Bare branches casted long shadows across the dirt roads. Snow fell in fat flakes, coating everything and giving the world a clean, cold look. He used to like the winter months. Winter always felt like a renewal. The pains of the last year were washed away with the snow. Winter didn’t feel like a renewal anymore. It was an unwelcome reminder of what had happened. The cold seeped into his bones and settled in his heart.

 

_“We need never be ashamed of our tears.”_

_-Charles Dickens_

 

He hadn’t cried when he heard the doctors announce his time of death. He didn’t cry as he salted and burned his brother’s body. He didn’t cry as he drove down the empty road with an even emptier seat next to him. He didn’t cry when he woke the next morning to find an empty bed beside him. Crying didn’t help. It was just a way to release some of the pain. He didn’t want to let it go. If he let it go, then it would be like it hadn’t happened. He couldn’t forget. They say that you die twice. Once when you stop breathing, and again when someone mentions your name for the last time. He wouldn’t let the memory of his brother die so he held in the pain. He held it in for a year. For twelve months he did not cry.

 

Until he did.

_“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”_

_-C.S. Lewis_

 

He began hunting again. Small jobs at first. Poltergeist. Vampires. Windiogos. Shape shifters. He slowly fell back into the rhythm of the hunt. The first time back was the hardest. He was hunting a spirit. Simple enough. He had found the grave and was digging when it began.

 

The sun was setting and the clouds hung low. Wind whipped around him, throwing dirt at his face. Stinging rain bit at his back and neck. He kept digging. The wind grew louder when he hit the casket. Poor Miss Margaret. Killed by her son and now forever haunting those who betrayed their mothers. He heard a howl before he was knocked sideways by the supernatural force. The blow knocked the air out of him. He lay gasping on the ground as the spirit raged above him, ready to kill him. He called out to his brother.

 

There was no answer.

 

With a ghost’s hand in his chest he had to handle this himself. Gritting his teeth, he threw salt. He felt like crying. He was alone and he was scared. He hadn’t hunted on his own in a very long time. Now he was all he had.

 

Later, when he was stitching up his wounds, he realized he couldn’t reach a cut on his back. No one was there to help him.

 

He was alone.

 

The second time they were 32 and 28. They were doing research on a hot summer day in Alabama. He meant to that time. Slow and deliberate he climbed onto his lap and stroked his hair, his face. He stared up at him, eyes wide. It was slow and gentle in the afternoon haze. The mosquitoes buzzed and the air conditioner hummed. The bed knocked lightly against the wall. Sweat clung to the sheets that draped over their bodies. Sticky kisses made their way down sweat-slicked necks and chests. They talked about the hunt afterwards. They lay in bed with the laptop propped before them and papers scattered about. Idle kisses were placed along biceps. They were happy. He was happy.

 

He was scared. He always had to be brave. Never had time to be scared. Now he was. He was alone. He was scared. He was hurt. He was not himself.

 

_“Deep in the earth my love is lying, and I must weep alone.”_

_-Edgar Allan Poe_

 

Three years later and he had enough. No one was there to stop him. No one was there to pull him away from the edge.

 

_One._

 

Breath in. Breath out.

 

_Two._

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

_Three._

Pull the trigger.

 

I wish he hadn’t pulled the trigger. He was almost there. His brother is right here next to me, unaware of the sorrow about to overcome him. I thought he would know the work of my kind already. I guess I was wrong.

 

His brother beside is getting closer. His brother has been missing for days. I don’t know what I’ll tell him when he finds the shattered, thin body of his brother.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know about the ending.


End file.
